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Usually, Poison Ivy does not pose this much of a threat. Not really, not anymore. Especially not in the face of other villains like Scarecrow or Joker. But today, she’s really pissing Jason off.
“Look, Hood, I don't really mind you, not usually. I don't care whose head you cut off as long as it's not mine or my plants. This is strictly business, yes? You should understand.” Poison Ivy looks as green as ever as she circles around Jason, who is strung up like a particularly red, particularly huge, and particularly peculiar looking fruit from a tree.
Jason twists a bit, trying to test the give on the vines trapping him, but they’re strong as ever. Even Batman cannot brute force his way out of them, although his suit has some lasers built into them to cut through them. God, why didn’t Jason think to add that to his own costume? That’d have made this a lot less dire.
Ivy circles around him, slowly, like the show off villain she is. “No hard feelings, right?”
Jason ignores her, trying to contort into a position that would let him reach the knife in his boot. But he’d never been as flexible as Dick, who could imitate a sock puppet like the best of them. So he ends up just wriggling around like a sad little worm.
“I’m not even harming you or anything, Hood,” Ivy says, waving her hand and tightening all the bonds around him, “But I do have to make sure my plans go off without a hitch. It’s difficult, you Bats keep multiplying every time I look away. I have to get creative too.”
With that, there is a burst of several flowers that he hadn’t even noticed blooming on the vines holding him, coating him with a shimmery yellow powder.
Jason freezes. He can’t help it, he just goes utterly, and completely still. His costume covers his body quite well, it does. There’s armour under his jacket, and his neck is covered, his head with the helmet, and his hands with gloves– but it’s all flimsy defence.
It’s flimsy even without Ivy coming closer, slowly tugging off his gloves as she gives him a surprisingly sincere looking apologetic look. “You’ll be fine. Just call one of the Bats here. Or two. Or all of them, really. It’ll wear off by tomorrow, I’m sure. Or maybe the day after. If you’d just agreed to kill off that CEO for me, this wouldn’t have happened. Batman gives you far too much reign, you wouldn’t have gone to Arkham for it.”
Sighing, she even tugs off his boots, and then his socks. He’d have made a quip about her undressing him without going on a first date, but he’s been stressed silent.
Ivy’s pollen is something Jason dreads just as much as Scarecrow’s fear gas. Sometimes even more. Fear gas only makes him feel fear, and Jason’s trained to fight past fear, to deal with panic and terror responses.
But the pollen? The one that makes him crave touch like a missing limb? It transports him straight back to that night when he’d found his mother in the bathroom, her body already cooling from having lain there, dead, the entire day. He’d held her, then, tried to gather up as much of her thin, limp body in his own tiny arms as he could. But she’d just been cold.
Ivy’s pollen is always so, so cold. It seeps into his bones, inside his veins, fills him up with a kind of icy dread he’d not felt even when crawling out of his coffin. It’s winters, cold winters spent in the streets, trying to find things in the trash he could burn for some warmth, selling his body to get even a few hours spent inside a motel room and letting the rough, cruel touch of rub some warmth into his blue tinged skin.
It’s the few months between Garzonas’ death and his own incursion to Ethiopia. Where Wayne Manor had felt bigger and chillier than ever, where every touch of Bruce’s had felt like it had to be paid for, to be earned, where the iciness in Bruce’s ice had been wormed its way into Jason’s heart, even when he huddled in as many blankets as possible and turned the heat up. It feels like stuffing non-perishable foods and money and silverware into a backpack in the inevitable chance he’d have to run away, or for when he’d be kicked out of Bruce’s house.
The pollen’s coating his feet and hands now, making his skin shimmer oddly in the dim light of the street corner she’d ambushed him at. There had been a few weeds growing in the cracks of the concrete, and while normally Jason would have appreciated the poetry of it all, right now all he can do is struggle and try not to panic.
“Me, though,” Ivy continues, now a few steps away from him, having accomplished what she sought to do, “I’ve been in Arkham too many times. Still, I’ll go there again, but only after I’ve made sure he won’t be razing anything down in my park. You cannot even comprehend the sheer amount of endangered flora and fauna that’s in there. I can’t let it all go to waste.”
Jason just grunts, a particularly ugly sound through the voice modulator. But it’s not like he’s trying to sound pretty right now. He just wants to get out, get away, hole up in his safe house and cry himself to exhausted unconsciousness before one of the Bats finds him. They are already split between some kind of scuffle that has been going on with Black Mask’s men and Poison Ivy. They can’t afford to divert more resources towards him, especially not when he himself is already out of commission.
“Now,” Ivy says, clasping her hands together eagerly, “Won’t you call someone?”
“Go fuck yourself,” Jason forces out, but he can already feel the effects of the pollen. Can feel the way his extremities tingle, a chill spreading through him. Or maybe he’s just imagining it. The pollen should not work this fast, right? Or maybe it does. His mind is already becoming addled from the panic, or the pollen, or maybe there’s been more alterations to her recipe and it’s a result from that.
He remembers just enough to disable his comms so he wouldn’t distract the others with worry for him.
And by disabled he means he bashes the side of his helmet directly into the wall closest to him, leading to a crunching sound and a dizzy spell so hard he feels weightless for a moment.
When he finally gains his senses enough to be able to see, there’s a sneer twisting its way across Ivy’s face. She scoffs. “Well, at least I know you’re not going to be bothering me. That’ll have to be enough, for now.”
Through half lidded eyes, he watches as she moves away, and out of his now very limited field of vision. He doesn’t sigh in relief. There’s no relief here, not really. Her being gone doesn’t mean anything at all. He knows what’s coming and he doesn’t think he can handle that right now.
But it’s not up to him, is it? There’s no limits to what he can and cannot handle. Or if there are, he’s not allowed to choose them. Even dying was not a limit, after all. He quite literally crawled out of his grave.
So, he will handle it, however reluctantly, in however much pain it took.
Jason just really desperately hopes no one will find him here, strung up, gift wrapped for anyone who might have a score to settle with the Red Hood. And god has he made a lot of enemies. Dangerous enemies.
At least he’d been smart enough to take away the choice of calling for help. He doesn’t know what he’ll do once he truly becomes compromised, once the pollen takes over everything, once the cold seeps in so that the coffin will seem welcoming in comparison, when he starts craving the warm, wet soil he’d had to dig his way out of.
“Hood disabled his comm,” Oracle’s voice rings out, and Tim’s speaking before Batman can get distracted.
“I’m on it,” he says. He isn’t in a critical position right now, not the way Batman, or Spoiler, or Cass are. He doesn’t know where, exactly, Signal and Nightwing are, but he also knows the Bats have been split too many ways off right now.
Last he checked, Red Hood had been in pursuit of Poison Ivy. His disabled comms don’t bode well.
“Red—” Batman begins, but Tim’s already moving.
“I said I’m on it. O, ping me the last location.”
“It’s live. The trackers are still active,” Oracle says, and Tim frowns. Well, that’s an unexpectedly good stroke of luck, but he’s learnt to beware these kinds of things. The Bats don’t get lucky, not like this. And they don’t stay alive without being suspicious little bastards.
The grapple shoots out, latching onto the next building, and he swings over. It’s not a quiet night, and the others are still engaged in the riot that’s Black Mask’s men. Apparently some kind of internal dispute, which they were trying to take advantage of. It just happened to fall on the same time as Ivy’s new plans as well.
He wonders whether she planned it this way.
Oh, who’s he kidding? She definitely planned it this way. She’s not stupid, and while she’s not actively murderous just for the sake of being evil, her intellect just makes her an even more dangerous opponent.
Hood’s not too far away, and he gives his ETA as eight minutes. But eight minutes is still too much, and his heart always betrays his careful training when anyone he cares about is in danger. He knows Batman has the same trouble.
He just hopes it won’t cause Batman to slip up.
Once upon a time, Tim would have scoffed at the very idea that Batman could ever slip up. But since then, he’s had some painful revelations correcting these assumptions.
Batman does slip up. He slips up a lot. But only when it comes to his kids.
Tim doesn’t need to check the coordinates to know he’s in the right place. Ivy’s plants are very starkly visible from his place on the rooftop, and he swings down, bo staffs at the ready and eyes narrowed in concentration just in case it’s a trap.
His boots make no sound as he lands, but he knows his arrival has been noticed when the plants rustle about violently. And then he finally catches a glimpse of leather armour and gleaming red metal.
“I found Hood,” Tim says, walking closer to Hood. “Moving about, but tangled up in Ivy’s vines.”
He gets an acknowledgment from Oracle as he finally gets within touching distance of Hood. For a moment there is stillness, and then Hood jerks forward violently, as if trying to lunge at Tim, and Tim’s unable to stop himself from extending his staff in a defensive position.
Hood lets out a tinny, whining sound, and goes limp. Tim almost drops his bo in surprised, but only steps closer. “Hood, Hood can you hear me?”
“G’way,” comes a muttered grumble.
“He’s responsive. Doesn’t seem injured, tangled up in Ivy’s plants though. I’ll extract him, Red Robin out,” he says, turning off his comms for anyone but Oracle, and muting his mic as well.
That’s Ivy’s Pollen.
He hadn’t quite realised what was wrong with the image until he noticed Hood’s bare feet and hands, and the shimmery yellow material that seemed to be coating them.
“Hood,” Tim says, keeping his voice both firm and gentle as he presses a mask over the lower, exposed half of his face. “I’m gonna cut you out, okay?”
Hood’s head just rolls backwards, and that worries Tim more than anything. He’s never seen Jason under the effects of Ivy’s pollen, neither as Robin nor as Hood. He’s not sure he wants to see it now, either. But he can’t distract the others from their own missions tonight either. He’d hoped to be able to go back to the docks with Sionis’ men after he’d made sure Hood was safe, because there really had been far too many of them, and there was a non-zero chance that civilians will get caught up in it. His intel had also suggested a trade of some several dozen assault rifles that he’d really rather not get into the wrong hands. Or any hands, really.
That doesn’t look like it’s gonna happen, though. Tim going back, that is.
He needs to stay with Hood. He takes out a batarang and slowly starts cutting away at the vines. They give away under him surprisingly easily, especially given how thick and sturdy they look otherwise.
When Hood falls, it takes most of Tim’s strength to make sure he doesn’t just crumple to the ground and break something. Like his neck.
God, the man’s bulky.
Tim grunts and slowly lowers Hood down to the floor, and then completely freezes.
The previously limp Hood has, once again, put on a surprising burst of strength and speed in order to latch around Tim in a vice-like grip.
Breathe, Tim tells himself, feeling Jason’s arms tightening around him the longer he remains non reactive, breathe, Red, breathe.
“Hood,” he tries, but Hood’s now trying to shove his face into Tim’s neck. While still wearing his thrice damned helmet. “Hood!”
The grumbling sound that comes out through Hood’s voice modulator is not even remotely human, yet seems to resemble a grumpy cat. Tim cannot help the hysterical little giggle that escapes him.
“We need to get this stuff off you,” he says, really hoping Hood’s coherent. He gotta be. Tim cannot deal with a Jason Todd who’s gone off in his head to la la land.
The thought is immediately followed by a rush of guilt and shame. He can’t blame Jason for the effects of Ivy’s pollen. Tim’s very, very intimately familiar with just how badly it can affect one’s mental faculties. Physical faculties too, really. He knows he doesn’t act much better than Hood's acting right now when under the effects.
Or at least, he hadn’t been able to.
The last few years had taught him that there were far worse things in life than just a bit of touch starvation.
Jason doesn’t respond.
“Hood,” Tim says, unable to help a little bit of desperation from leaking into his voice. Hood is still trying to burrow into his neck with his helmet, and it’s actually starting to hurt now. Tim shoves his head away, and is met with a sound that is so similar to a sob that he doesn’t even react when Jason dives right back in.
“Look, we gotta get to a safe house, okay? And then you can emulate a mole as much as you want.”
There’s a moment of stillness, and then Jason shoves Tim away with just brute force that Tim goes sprawling backwards, his head hitting the ground with a smack that makes him have to blink out stars before he’s scrambling to his feet, wondering whether this is really just the pollen or—
Jason’s on the ground, too. Curled up into a ball, his arms over his head and entire body trembling violently. He’s making some noises too, but Tim can’t quite make them out through the helmet. Every couple seconds, he jerks around, almost like he’s having seizures.
Tim crouches down beside him, but this time makes sure his feet are planted and Jason won’t be able to catch him off guard. “Jason,” he whispers, knowing he’s not supposed to use civilian names but unable to help it. He doesn’t want to see Hood like this.
He’s sure Hood wants Tim to see him like this even less.
Well, tough luck. Tim’s the one who's here. And weather or not Jason believes it, he needs help. It’s so painfully clear that he needs help.
“Jason,” he repeats, and sees the way Jason twitches at his name, “I don’t think I can carry you to a safehouse with you like this. I might have to sedate you if you won’t cooperate.”
Even sedated, it’d be difficult to carry Jason. He could call RedBird here, maybe. But it would take some time, considering how far away he is from where he stashed it. The Batmobile would be closer, but he really does not want to pull their getaway vehicle here when Batman and the others might need it more.
Jason uncurls, just a little. And then clamps a hand around Tim’s wrist in a surprisingly tight grip. “Get me,” he pants, “Outta here. ‘Ouse foh, norf– north”
“I know the safehouse you’re talking about,” Tim says, sparing Jason the trouble and not taking a moment to let himself feel the relief that floods through him at hearing Hood’s voice sound somewhat coherent. He does his best to clean off whatever pollen he can from Jason’s hands and feet, before putting the wipes in ziplock bags to examine later.
He wraps one of Hood’s arms around his shoulders, then hauls the man up. It’s significantly easier to do than when he’d had to slow Hood’s descent to the ground, so Tim can tell that at least Hood’s pulling his weight now. Just a little.
North Avenue, house number four. Not very far from here. Actually, less than a five minute walk. And by walk Tim means the strange, huddle-shuffle thing that the two of them are doing to try and accommodate the shudders that run through Jason as well as the way he occasionally tightens his grip around Tim to the point of pain.
When Tim finally sees house number four, he has to brace himself because his body really wants to just slump over, like it’s found safety already. But there’s still steps to make. And then they have to actually deal with the pollen.
It’s a boarded up place which used to be owned by a paranoid, middle aged man who built a bunker beneath it. Not terribly huge or well designed, but Tim knew Jason had made enough adjustments to the place to be a decently serviceable safe house, if a little cramped. There’s a window in the back that’s just big enough for them to wriggle through one by one if they remove a couple wooden planks. Tim makes quick work of it, and shoves Jason through the window before himself, gazing around darkly and wondering if there’s people watching.
The busted street lights provide a good cover for darkness, though, and most people have enough sense not to stray out if Ivy’s in one of her moods. Which she clearly is, given the surprisingly fastidious Gotham radio broadcast that takes over digital Gotham whenever there’s a breakout.
As soon as Tim hears the thud of Jason landing on the inside, he turns on his comm again, only tuning it in to Oracle so she could distribute the information to others at her discretion, “O, Red speaking. Hood’s been infected by pollen. I’ll stay with him. Take me out of tonight’s roster unless a level 2B or higher emergency occurs.”
“Got it, Red. Tell me if you need back up.” There is a firmness to Oracle’s voice that makes Tim wince. He’s well aware of both his own and Jason’s tendency to downplay things and go off on their own. Really, most Bats are like this, but Tim and Jason have made being independent into an artform.
“Roger that,” Tim says, a little cheekily, trying to diminish some of Babs worries as he hauls himself inside through the window as well. There’s worry already niggling in the back of his mind because he hasn’t heard anything from Jason past the initial landing thud.
Turning off his comm, he turns on night vision in his mask, looking around until he finds Hood. Who is now sitting in a corner of the room, arms around his knees, the shudders still going through him. Tim makes his way over there, calling out Jason’s name.
There’s no response, except an increase in shudders.
“Come on, Jay,” Tim coaxes, “We need to get to the basement. Or bunker. Or whatever the hell it’ll be called.”
“T’is a bunk’r,” Jason gasps out, uncurling a little and very clearly struggling to make himself uncurl. Tim’s immediately there, ducking under his arm and lifting him to his feet.
Unfortunately, Jason’s knees buckle almost as soon as the two of them are upright, and he nearly takes the two of them back to the ground.
It's clear the effects of the pollen are becoming almost too much by now, and the way down to the bunker is much more difficult than the way to the safehouse itself had been. Somehow, they make it there, and Tim wastes no time in turning on the lights and setting Jason down on one of the chairs. The cheap plastic thing creaks a little under his weight, but holds on.
When Tim reaches for the latches on Hood’s helmet, he’s half expecting his wrist to be snapped. Jason’s not really in the best state of mind right now, and while Tim might not be familiar with Jason on Ivy’s pollen, he’s still very familiar with a Jason whose emotions and mind might be altered chemically. Or magically, whatever the fuck the Lazarus Pit is.
Jason only tilts his head up to give Tim easier access, and Tim’s so surprised at the gesture that he only stands there gaping for nearly four full seconds, by which point Hood clearly gets impatient and reaches up to unlatch it himself.
Tim slaps his hand away before the idiot can smear any more residual pollen across his neck and face.
Less than eight minutes, and the helmet is off, as is his leather jacket, kevlar armor, the almost all the weapons. Almost, because Tim’s not stupid enough to think the weapons he found are the only ones Jason has. The man’s more ridiculously armed than Batman himself, who keeps far too many odd items on his own person.
The thing is, all that should not have taken more than three minutes. The Bats are efficient, they’re trained to be efficient. But Jason kept fucking latching onto his arms and trying to pull Tim into his goddamn lap every single time Tim took an item off his person. Tim’s surprised he didn’t find it comfortable, merely an annoyance.
A great, big, grumbly annoyance.
“Come on, you big lump,” Tim mutters, “You need to take a shower. Like, right now.” Jason is trying to sneak a hand around the back of Tim’s neck, and Tim has to stomp down on Jason’s bare foot, not hard enough to break anything, but still hard enough that the attempt ceases. “The pollen’s not all off. Go get your damn shower, I’ll find wherever the fuck you stashed a change of clothes around here. Then you can get what you want, okay?”
Jason shoves away from Tim with a grunt, dislodging his arm and almost leaping towards the bathroom door. “Fuck off,” he says, the words surprisingly coherent.
Tim is starting to get serious whiplash from the way Jason’s acting, and it’s difficult to keep a check on his irritation even though he knows it’s not entirely in Jason’s control.
Emphasis on not entirely. He definitely still does have some control, given the little grumbles Tim can hear Jason muttering before the bathroom door is slammed shut in Tim’s face.
Rude.
Still, there’s work to be done.
Tim finds a change of clothing quite easily, not that he’d expected anything different. Jason always took after Alfred in regards to his organisation and control freak tendencies, needing everything to be neat and organised and done just exactly the right way. And while Tim is not generally too messy of a person– his mother had kept him on his toes, despite her prolonged absences– it’s way too easy to rile both Jason and Damian up if he overplays it a little.
Oh, the small joys.
But still, this is a safehouse, and Tim would rather not mess anything up in here, so he just grabs the change of clothing, some protein bars and crackers, a couple sealed water bottles, and some blankets. There’s a cot here, along with several first aid supplies and some more serious healing things, but it’s not a place meant for long term living, so no mattresses. And the cot is definitely not large enough to hold both of them. Not unless Tim decides to just lie on top of Jason the entire time– or god forbid, Jason decides to lie on top of Tim the entire time.
No. Just— no. The blankets will have to do.
The place all set up, he starts stripping off most of his outer layers. The cape goes off, so does both the eye mask and the rebreather he’d strapped on to prevent the pollen from touching the more vulnerable parts of his face. The gloves, the boots, the bandoliers.
It takes a few moments of hesitation, but he also strips off his kevlar enforced shirt leaving him in a thinner, sleeveless undershirt.
While he would have been infinitely more comfortable with it on, he has enough experience with the pollen to know that it’ll be coming off later anyway. Well, it wouldn’t, if he truly didn’t want it to, but then the image of Jason, on the ground, curled up and shuddering violently— it flashes through his mind, and he’s unable to keep his wince in.
It’s fine. It’s just a bit of cuddling.
Also, he knows for a fact that Jason hates the situation as much as Tim does. Maybe even more so.
There’s probably a reason Tim’s never seen Jason under the effects of the pollen before.
When Jason finally comes out of the shower, he’s wearing the clothes Tim had left for him; a pair of shorts and a tank top. Maximum skin on skin contact. Tim might not like the effects of cuddle pollen, and he also thinks it’s a rather humiliating experience altogether, he’s too professional to let his own misgivings get in the way of established protocol for various substance exposures.
And that’s what this is. Protocol. Even Batman follows it.
Jason sees Tim, sitting in the middle of the blankets he’d laid out on the floor, cross legged, back straight, trying to get his heartbeat under control because there was no danger here, at all. Pollen does not make people aggressive.
No, the aggression is all Jason. Still, no uncontrolled violence that Tim needs to be wary of. But his silly little heart does not know that now, does it? It insists on keeping him all keyed up and ready to attack or flee at any given moment. And he knows if he’s all tensed up, Jason would be all tensed up, and Tim would really rather not be suffocated halfway to death tonight if he has to deal with a Jason Todd hopped up on pollen who is also in fight or flight mode.
But Jason does not come closer. He just stares at Tim. At the blankets spread out. At his Red Robin costume, piled up haphazardly on one of the chairs with a couple batarangs, his staff, and one of Jason’s guns within easy reach from the blanket.
The safe house as safe as a place can possibly be in Gotham, but they’re not vigilantes for nothing. No weapons would make them far more nervous than some weapons.
“No,” Jason says, finally meeting Tim’s eyes. He’s clutching at the towel. The wet towel, wrapped around him, still dripping drops of water on the floor. “Get out.”
TIm raises a brow at the coherency. Jason almost seems fine.
Almost.
“No.” Tim’s voice is calm and firm, even though a part of him jumps at the chance to leave. But that’s the thing. He’s far too observant to do that. He can see the minute tremors still visible in Jason’s hands, despite how tightly they’re clutching at the towel. THe way Jason’s feet are planted on the floor, shoulder width apart, knees locked, like it’s taking all he has not to collapse again. He can see the wild look creeping into his eyes, the desperation that is a familiar look, even if Tim’s never seen it on Jason’s face before.
“Get the fuck out of my safe house. I don’t need your help. Thank you or whatever for getting me outta there, but get out. Get your stupid costume back on and go to the docks, or capture Ivy.” Jason’s voice is remarkably normal sounding, but it still cracks at odd times. Barely noticeable, but Tim’s built his career on noticing barely noticeable things. Jason has also started swaying forwards a little, almost like there’s someone behind him, shoving at him.
“Come here, Jason.”
“I said, ” Jason starts, and then just… stops. He closes his eyes and takes in some deliberately deep breaths. Tim can see the way his chest rises and falls with every inhale and exhale. Then there’s a choked sound from deep within his throat, and he clutches the towel tighter around himself, shivering.
“You know a cold, wet towel isn’t going to do anything for you, right?”
Predictably, instead of using his words, Jason just growls at him, eyes flashing open with a burst of green.
“Oooh, scary dark lord with his scary growl, coming at me,” Tim sing songs, “What’s he gonna do to me? Cuddle me aggressively?”
Jason rips the towel off his shoulders and throws it away, but almost immediately follows it up by wrapping his arms around himself protectively. Like that’s gonna help. He still doesn’t use his words though.
“Jason, stop being a stubborn idiot. Oracle already put me off tonight’s roster. The others are handling things, easy.”
Tim almost scrambles away when Jason starts stalking towards him, although it looks like each step takes him the effort of moving a hundred rocks. He manages to quell the urge, though. After all, this is what he wanted.
Jason bends down and grabs Tim’s shoulders in a painful grip, “That is exactly what Ivy wanted!” He shakes Tim violently, although there’s not much strength to him.
“I’m very well aware,” Tim says calmly. Well, he hadn’t been sure, but that’s what he suspected the tactic was. After all, Black Masks’ workers riot tonight is no coincidence. “But the others can handle it. It’s no longer just the dynamic duo of Batman and Robin, remember? There’s still a small army of vigilantes out there.”
Jason is still gripping Tim tightly, enough to leave bruises. Great. Perfect. Even on a night he’s not working, he’s gonna end up with bruises, ugly little things he had to work towards hiding. There’s also an odd, almost whining sound coming from Jason, and his eyes are growing wilder by the minute. Tim only has a moment to feel his wariness before he is being shoved backwards with so much force he’s sure his back’s gonna be one large bruise the next day as well.
Tim’s not even finished rolling his eyes until he feels a heavy weight on top of him. Very, very heavy. Jason crawls on top of him, and buries his face in Tim’s neck.
Okay. This is not too bad, except Tim can’t breathe very well. But that’s okay, it’s okay. Breathing Isn't that important anyway. He can take this, and Jason’s already shifting around enough for TIm to be able to suck in shallow breaths if he tries very hard.
Mumbling. Jason’s saying something. It takes some effort, but Tim’s finally able to make out a few words.
“Get me out,” Jason whispers, “I want out… out out out—”
“Out?” Tim interrupts, because it looks like Jason is spiralling pretty badly. “I’m sorry, Jason, but this is the safest place for you right—”
“No!” Jason says, and Tim can feel his chest vibrate with the force of the word, “I want out.”
“And I’m saying it’s not—”
“No,” this time the word is a whisper, but Tim is stopped short when he feels dampness on his skin. Like Jason’s crying. No, not like he’s crying, he actually is crying. A sob escapes the man, and Tim’s arms automatically rise up to wrap around Jason, who goes limp on top of Tim.
“No?”
“I want out of my skin,” Jason says, like he’s confessing something, like it’s some big sin he committed and cannot bear to speak it louder lest it lend too much weight to the words. “I want out. I don’t want it. Take it off.”
“Jason,” Tim says, a little helpless, “I can’t… it’s okay.”
“No,” Jason says, and really, Tim’s starting to fucking hate that word. What does he even mean, no?
“No, what?” Tim asks tiredly, trying not to gasp too obviously for breath.
“No words. Not a word,” he says, as he wraps himself more comfortably around Tim, pulling them both to their sides instead of Jason laying completely on top of Tim, and he throws one leg over Tim.
Automatically opening his mouth to say a word, or perhaps several words, Tim pauses. Jason’s still crying, he can feel it, his tears dampening the collar of Tim’s shirt. The shudders haven’t ceased at all, even though by all rights the physical symptoms should’ve eased considerably by now, given how much skin contact the two of them have right now.
Okay. Okay then, no words. Not a single word.
But Jason’s still shivering, and there’s a few extra blankets right there, so Tim shifts around a little, trying to pull it over the two of them, but then Jason growls, again, and oh, it sounds much more menacing when Tim can literally feel it reverberate against his own skin.
“Do you want me to shoot you to keep you still?” Jason snarls, tightening his grip to the point it actually hurts.
“It’s okay, it’s alright,” Tim babbles, and okay, maybe some words. Some words are important. Vital, even, to his survival. “Just getting some more blankets, okay? I wasn’t gonna stop touching you.”
Jason almost completely loosens his grip on Tim, pulling away enough to leave Tim gaping in astonishment. He really hadn’t thought Jason still had the capacity to do that, not with how erratic he’s acting, but he manages it.
Really goes on to say a lot about the guy’s sheer self control. Tim’s reluctantly impressed, but mostly guilty because now he has a full view of Jason’s red rimmed eyes, his lips twisted in a grimace. “You can just fucking stop touching me, you know,” Jason snaps, “You can leave. In fact, you should leave.”
And just like that, with a few stupid words, any feelings of admiration go away.
He reaches out a hand, grabs the back of Jason’s neck in his own bruising grip, and nearly slams Jason’s head back onto Tim’s shoulder. In another swift move, he rolls them both over so now Tim’s on top of Jason, and yes, Tim’s slight enough and Jason big enough that he can’t effectively work like a blanket, but that’s what the extra blankets are for, aren’t they? He’s gonna make use of them.
Their position also effectively traps Jason’s hands between their bodies, so there’s no guns and bullet wounds to worry about as he quickly reaches over and pulls two of the blankets over themselves.
Tim’s gonna overheat quickly, he knows. But he also knows just how cold Ivy’s pollen is.
He’d rather overheat than let Jason keep feeling that bone deep chill that feels like someone submerged your very bones into icy waters.
Actually being dumped in the icy waters of Gotham Bay in the middle of January feels warmer than that, actually.
On second thought— Tim pulls a third blanket over the two of them, and now Tim’s definitely gonna get overheated, but they’ve got two water bottles. If nothing else, he can just dump some water on top of his head. That should cool him down.
He lifts his body just enough that Jason can pulls his hands out if he wants, and he does exactly that, only to wrap them back around Tim. They are far more gentle than they had been any other times. Almost tentative, in a way.
Tim slumps back down on top of Jason, this time burying his own face in Jason’s neck. The man still smells like cigarettes, despite the shower, and Tim wrinkles his nose. “You really need to stop smoking,” he mutters, and Jason lets out a choked laugh.
“Are you still cold?” Tim asks, very quietly, quieter than even the ticking of the clock.
There’s a few moments of silence, and Tim’s just about to lift his neck and check whether Jason’s fallen asleep before he speaks, “No. Not anymore.”
“Good. That’s good.”
And then there’s no talks, not even any kind of shifting for a long, long while. Though it’s also only been four minutes, twenty three seconds.
No, Tim wasn’t counting. It’s just that the clock is so loud.
“Oh, and Tim?” Jason says, and while there’s still a wobble in his voice that Tim doesn’t like, he sounds a lot less like he’s about to unravel on the spot. “If this gets out, no one will hear from you ever again.”
Well, that’s a weak threat if Tim ever heard one. Jason didn’t even put an appropriate amount of menace in it.
And anyway, both of them know the incident report of tonight’s events will only contain the barebones details.